


As Easy As History.

by colormebucky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Captain America - Freeform, M/M, Stucky - Freeform, stevebucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colormebucky/pseuds/colormebucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's taken a liking to boxing. It was the exact kind of stress relief he needed, after feeling so easily aggravated with everything - including himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Easy As History.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this is my first time posting to AO3 so hello! I've been writing for about 3 or 4 years now, but then I was sent a stucky fanfic on here and then I was exposed to the soul crushing Marvel world that is cap *squeals* and now I'm a stevebucky sap, back to where it all started. I decided to try my hand at writing Stucky, based on this tumblr post (idk how to insert hyperlinks so you'll have to forgive me whoops)  
> http://winter-cap.tumblr.com/post/124588810684/headcanon-that-bucky-starts-boxing-for-stress  
> I hope you all enjoy! I would so greatly appreciate any comments or feedback *sends out hugs*

Bucky had a hard time adjusting to modern day society the first few weeks. There was so much to take in, so much to understand, when he was still trying to understand himself. Slipping out of the mindset that Hydra had influenced - no, programmed - on him wasn't easy. Some days, he still felt like some kind of mechanic, control driven assassin. It was a cold, empty feeling. He didn't know what his purpose was on those days he let the underlying guilt take over, didn't know what made him happy.

The only thing that could keep him grounded, the only person he could slightly recall being important to him or in his life at all, was Steve.

Granted, they were 70 years removed from their time period (how _odd_ to think of it as their past now), so everyone Bucky used to know was surely in their grave by now, but there was a connection with Steve that was just so simple, that Bucky didn't doubt him when Steve told him that they used to be the best of pals. Bucky felt that he could trust Steve, on all different kinds of levels. When it came to hearing about the things he had done as the Winter Solider, he turned to Steve, because hell, honesty bled out of that man. Even if the things he discovered were shocking or downright atrocious, he could confide in Steve to be blatantly honest with him on the things that Bucky just _needed_ to know, to get a better handle on who he was, what he had been when he wasn't him, on who he'd be now that he wasn't some kind of war machine.

He'd been used like some mindless weapon, and that's what baffled Bucky most. Him, out of all people, had been captured after miraculously surviving a deadly fall, taken into custody like some untrained child, and was conditioned, tortured, until his mind was a blank slate, until it knew nothing but pure skill. They had taken his mind and turned into some kind of murderous code.  
Bucky shudders, remembering that part of his tampered with life all too well. His life in 1942 felt distant, then it was just a long, numb sleep, and then he was awoken and all he knew a long, numb living...That and pain.

With all this weighing on his mind, Bucky's taken a liking to boxing. It was the exact kind of stress relief he needed, after feeling so easily aggravated with everything - including himself. He didn't let himself near any of that advanced technology; whenever Tony Stark attempted to show him how something works or give him the latest cell phone, he'd simply wave him off. Bucky refused to watch TV too (those things were _huge_ now), due to all the information to process on it. It was too much, too fast. Before he could finish wondering how the hell an automatic face washing brush worked, the next commercial would come on. Just the fact that it was all in technicolor now gave him a migraine.

He let his bandaged fist come into contact with the large punching bag, thinking about all the stupid food advertisements that he didn't even know the tastes for. He hated the ridiculously large phones people chose to carry around and spend half their time on (as well as their god damn earnings), he hated the unclassy on-the-borderline-of-trashy dresses the dames wore on television shows, he hated the music, he _hated_ that he couldn't keep up, that he'd never catch up on 70 lost years, he hated it, he hated it, he hated-

His metal arm sends the punching bag reeling and he catches it when it swings back at him, realizing he was panting now, his eyes trained on his long shiny fingers. That was something else they had changed about him; taken from him, really. When Steve saved him from being under Hydra's spell, when he'd gone off and learned about their friendship at the Smithsonian, he'd woken up screaming one night, finally processing that his human arm was gone, like a solider that had gone into shock and still hadn't realized his body part had been blown off by a land mine. That night had been when it really sunk in for Bucky, when he could no longer live with a part of him that had been used as a weapon, had helped him commit so many sickening crimes and complete murderous missions. And that damned red star, he could hardly stand to stare at it anymore.

That's when he'd tried to rid himself of it, and that's when Steve and some lad named Sam had found him trapped in the intricate piece of machinery, only half alive. It had taken a while to dislodge his arm from the large scraps of metal, but when he had, Steve had sunk to his knees, taking Bucky's face in his hands, his eyes filled with so much concern, that Bucky knew then, that this was the one person Bucky could trust with his fucked up life in his hands.

He came to terms with the arm and, slowly, even accepted it as a part of him. As Steve had put it, it was a symbol, a token of what he'd survived, and only made him stronger. That was just like Steve Rogers, he realized. 

Releasing the bag, Bucky let out a slow breath as he began to hop from foot to foot, focusing all his energy and pent up frustrations on the center, his target. He kept his eyes on it like a lion stalking its prey, regardless that he knew that this lifeless bag wasn't going anywhere.

His continuous jabs sounded with a hard thump each time. It felt like hitting a stiff pillow. He picks up momentum, feeling the anger build up. Images flashes in his mind, fueling his hits as the force continues to build. And build and build until-

He lets out something short of a war cry, slamming his metal fist into the bag, sending it snapping off of the chain and hook it was suspended from. It not only hits the wall, but goes through the damn thing, before finally falling onto the broken pieces of concrete with a _fwomp_. A few pieces rattle as they roll down, and Bucky's shoulders relax. He stares at the wreck with an odd kind of serenity.  
"Take it easy there, Buck," the familiar voice says from behind him, bringing a soft smirk to his lips.

"Thought I was," he jokes, his old easygoingness returning with a flip of a switch. He only ever put his guard down around Steve. Knew he could share his cynical humor with him and actually be understood.

Bucky looks over his shoulder, Steve standing at the door of the closed off gym in the Avengers tower, walking towards him with an easy grace that he never had before back when he was a scrawny kid. That was something that Bucky would always remember, something that even Hydra's brainwashing couldn't make him forget.

Hands in his pockets of his form fitting sweatpants, Steve stands at Bucky's side to assess the damage. "Y'know it takes a lot to break down a wall with one blow, especially one in Stark's place."

Bucky merely shrugs. "He as confident as his pops?"

Steve laughs as he recalls the auto show decades ago. The sound was one of the only thing Bucky could tolerate in this day and age, and welcomed the haughty cackle. He realizes he's missed it, and Bucky wonders how long it had really been since Steve had laughed like that.

Wiping the sweat with the hem of his shirt, exposing his stomach to Steve, Buck pauses when he remembers the towel he brought with him. A blush rises in his cheeks as he fixes the thin wife beater back down his torso and huffs. The long, dark haired man walks over to it and his bottled water, slinging the towel over his shoulders. He looks back at Steve, who's smiling half a mile wide.

"What?" Bucky mumbles, anxious under his deep blue stare.

Steve licks his lips and they part softly. "Have I told you how good it is to have you back?"

Something in Bucky's chest flutters and his heart beats faster. The way Steve looked at him brought a wave of feelings rushing back from 1942. His pulse picks up, his head spinning at the idea that Steve was glad to have _him_ back, different as he may be now. Even as lost as Bucky was, Steve accepted him with open arms, arms that Bucky wanted to engulf him, to bury himself in them and let Steve hold him.

The boy clears his throat as he dries his neck of sweat. "Uhh, don't think so." He pauses, staring at him with a playful look in his eyes, lips pursed and curving. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Telling me."

He notices Steve's cheeks redden and he mutters, "Yeah I am. It's not easy, being without you, y'know."

Bucky pauses at that, his gaze curious as he holds his friend's. Why would it be hard? Has Steve made himself sick worrying about him? Bucky felt his stomach churn at the thought of his life long friend suffering because of him, just because he wasn't around. What would he possibly need Bucky for?

Luckily, Steve doesn't give him a chance to worry about what that meant, smiling and nudging his side softly. "Come on. I'll take you on."

Buck's eyes widen as his mouth stretches into a grin. "In the ring? You gonna have me on the ropes?"

"You bet your ass I am," Steve exudes with the utmost confidence. Bucky almost thinks maybe he's spent too much time around Tony. But then again, Steve had always been that smart mouthed, trash talking kid from Brooklyn.

The two step into the boxing ring, Bucky gathering his hair into a loose ponytail, a strand or two falling loose. They gear up, putting the safety headgear, gloves, and mouthpieces on before stepping into their corners. Not that they needed it, but the two came to a silent consensus that no punches would be thrown unless the other endured the least damage possible, neither wanting to hurt the other. They eventually begin to walk in a circle close to each other and their eyes hold. Steve watches him intently as they hop from foot to foot, their arms held up defensively in front of their face and torso.

Bucky wasn't sure who was supposed to throw the first punch. The thought of physically hurting Steve or simply attempting to, even if it wasn't a serious match, made him uneasy.

But then Steve swings and Bucky has to lunge out of the way. From then on, they exchange blows, blocking shots, throwing hits and receiving them, all while moving. Their feet never stopped moving, and it almost felt like a wordless silent dance, with only the sound of their grunts and gloves on gloves echoing throughout the room.

And suddenly, Steve really does have him on the ropes, shoving on his chest and Bucky bounces onto them, staring dubiously at him. On instinct, Bucky hops back, shoving back with twice as much force. He finds himself flinging off his gloves and pulling off his headgear, metal hand taking Steve's shirt in his hands.  
His breathing is heavy but Steve doesn't make his sound, his eyes big and cautious. He knew better than anyone how to handle Bucky, so he speaks in a gentle tone as he removes the mouthpiece. "Buck, hey. It's okay. I-I'm sorry. It's just me. It's Steve."

Bucky blinks, and he's horribly aware of his past way of being kicking in, the way he tried so hard to break free of. Releasing his death grip on Steve's shirt, he steps back with a haunted look on his face. "Stevie," he breathes, the name falling from his lips naturally, as light as air, but holding so much fucking weight. This was supposed to be his buddy, his pal, he's supposed to trust him. Why couldn't he just let that side of him go? He didn't want to be a damn wrecking ball that broke everything in its path.

"You shouldn't be sorry," he whispers, collapsing against one of the corners. He leans against it in defeat and hangs his head. He looks at his deadly metal fingers, cursing the people that had made him this way.

Steve walks over to him, and Bucky gasps as he takes his face in his hands, shocked that he'd risk that after Bucky had just tried snapping his neck.

"Look at me," he says gently, and Bucky is surprised to find himself listening. His colored eyes lock with Steve's sea of blue, brighter than the damn sky. He held his entire past in those eyes; he's seen him at his best, and at his lowest. He's seen Bucky in ways that Bucky couldn't even see.

"You are James Buchanan Barnes," Steve drawls out slowly. "You're my friend, and I'm yours. Nothing will change that."

"But I'm a monster," Bucky says, giving a weak smile. It felt awkward and wry but Buck had to try, try his damned hardest to show Steve he was slowly accepting the fact.

But Steve shakes his head. "No. The people that did this to you are monsters. You might have this system built into you, but that doesn't change who you are."

"I was the Winter Soldier, Steve," Buck sighs, staring at the perfect features on Steve's smooth skin. There wasn't a single flaw with this boy.

"That's not true-"

"Yes I was," he snaps. "It happened and I can't change that. You can't change history. It's built into me, just like Captain America is built into you."

Steve gives him a sympathetic look. "Just because I'm cap doesn't make me any less Steve Rogers, Bucky. I can be both, but I can also be one more than the other if I really need to. You are not the Winter Solider. You're Bucky. You with me?"

That question strikes something in Bucky, and he feels his lips tilt softly. With a pat on Steve's arm, he answers, "Till the end of the line, pal."

Steve's smile could blind a man if it wasn't Bucky looking at him, who couldn't get enough of that gorgeous look. His hands wrap around Bucky's body and he sighs in relief as his wish is granted, and Bucky folds himself into it. Under his breath, Steve murmurs, "Punk."

And with a happiness that Bucky doesn't think he's felt since 70 years of a wakeful sleep in waiting, he kisses Steve's neck and whispers, "Jerk."

Steve was right. Bucky was Bucky, _his_ Bucky, and nothing he could do would ever change that. They could start back up right where they'd left off in 1942.

And the rest is history.


End file.
